


In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Deviation



Series: The Edge of the World [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deviation/pseuds/Deviation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is known as The Shepard but some of the details have been lost to time; it all happened so very long ago. </p><p>Here are some of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Kingdom by the Sea

 

 

\---

_Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black_  
 _And the dark street winds and bends._  
 _Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow_  
 _We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,_  
 _And watch where the chalk-white arrows go_  
 _To the place where the sidewalk ends._  
– Where the Sidewalk Ends, Shel Silverstein

\---

There’s a memorial on the Citadel.

She passes it often, sees it from the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t stop and linger. Doesn’t let her eyes pause on familiar names and faces. She’s a symbol now, against the Reapers, she can’t be seen mourning. Can’t be seen as weak. But she passes the memorial often, more often than she probably needs to; there are other ways, after all, to get from one place to the other. But she still passes the memorial often. Sometimes, Marian sees Cortez there staring at a holo vid in his hands that he always takes back with him. Less often she sees Joker there, in front of a picture of his sister. Even less often she’ll see Ashely there, in front of the portrait of Kaiden.  
Marian Shepard does not stop to chat. She doesn’t falter in her steps. She is single minded in her direction, wherever it may be.  
But there is a memorial on the Citadel, within the sanctuary, the fortress, and on a ledge nearby there is a well-worn, well-used, well-loved prayer book-the remnants of a well-worn, well-used, and well-loved man.  
She does not falter or slow or hesitate, but Marian Shepard does pass by the memorial more often than she needs to.

 

 -

Mordin dies.

  
“Someone else might have gotten it wrong.”

  
She doesn’t cry, she’s a commander, but her throat tightens because that is so him, so Mordin. She pulls a sharp salute, and for a moment he looks apologetic, but he returns it because he’s Mordin and they’ve always been good friends despite the disagreements between them.

  
She walks away, she doesn’t look back (sky eyes stare: she didn’t then eith-shut up shut up shut up shut-) and high above there’s an explosion, a release of the cure. Ash falls like snow from the dead skies of Tuchanka. She raises a hand, palm up, as on land upon it, burning her flesh through the glove.

There is an old Earth philosophy called Utilitarianism, or, The Greatest Happiness Principle. It’s complex and sometimes cruel but it boils down to the greatest good for all which in itself is summed up in very basic scenario: There is a train out of control on the tracks and down the line there are five people stuck on the tracks who will be killed, but down a second set of tracks there are only two people who are trapped who will also be killed should change tracks. When given the choice most choose to go down the second set of tracks and preserve the greater amount of life. But then there is a second scenario, this time, you are an outsider, watching the train speeding towards five trapped people working on escaping but there is a single man on the side also watching the train. Do you push the man onto the tracks so that the five others have time to escape?  
What do you do?

“We shall spread the hope you have given us,” says Eve.

Goddamit

 

- 

Garrus comes to her, or she comes to Garrus. Honestly, does it matter who went to whom? But they’re together, drunk on their respective drinks, and he asks, quietly, lowly and kind of grumbly, “You okay, Shepard?”  
She’s a symbol of a desperate galaxy that was ready to flay her alive not six months before, she is the eye of a storm by the name of War, Cerberus is hunting her down, the Batarians rage for her blood, the Reapers could only be days away for all anyone knows and the Crucible isn’t anywhere near done yet. There’s infighting and bloodshed and still there are those that refuse to believe that the Reapers are a greater threat then long-standing enemies. And Thane is gone.

Thane is gone.

“Yeah Garrus, I’m fine. Gimme another.”

 

 -

_“Shepard”_ it is surprise  
 _“Shepard”_ It is a gasp, and it is fond and it is full of love  
 _“Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable depths: I ask forgiveness.”_  
She runs and runs through dead forests, chasing and chasing and never catching.  
 _“You are a great protector, Siha. But some things are beyond even you.”_  
Running and never catching, his voice follows and ash falls from the dead skies landing on outstretched palms, burning through the gloves she wears  
 _“It seems there will be no one to mourn me when I die. You are the only friend I’ve made in ten years.”_  
She moves slow, too slow, too slow or maybe everyone else moves to fast  
 _“Just don’t make the mistake I did. There is always another mission, none of them are an excuse to make yourself an island.”_

_The world burns._

She wakes, alone and gasping. Tears falling down her face and she remember his voice from the time of before:  
“Your memory is not like ours, but, perhaps, you can hold me in it for a while.”  
How could he ask that, how could he even think she could forget, would forget, want to forget him and all that he was?

  
”You won’t be alone for long.”

 -

In the before:  
They lay in bed, he on his back for easy breathing, and Marian curls around him, clutching him tighter then maybe she should and he so gently as though preparing to let go. “Siha” he says, and his seaweed eyes are sad. There is a conversation that needs having, told in the different ways they hold one another. It’s obvious, thus, she avoids it. Sort of.  
“What do you know about Angels, Thane?”

  
He pauses, curious or maybe indulgent. Marian grips him tighter, “They are found in many of your Earth’s religions, most commonly derived from Christianity, and are known fierce protectors and warriors of the Christian God. Is there something else, Siha?”

  
She lets a contemplative sound from her throat and he shivers, grip tightening momentarily before loosening again, “Religion was already something commonly not practiced by the early twenty-first century and many who did practice their religion were not nearly as traditional as their ancestors had been. Despite the low number of people who actually practice religion these days, the concept of Angels is still known widely. They couldn’t tell you anything about religion itself, but any human can tell you what an Angel is. Know why?”

  
Now Thane is curious, it is obvious in the way his chest take on a pitch just so, inaudible to her despite the fact that her ear lies so close to his throat. His voice is light with curiosity, “I do not Siha.”  
“There’s nowhere in any religion that says it, but, for a long time, even today in fact, people believe that when our loved ones…pass, they become Angels that watch out for us…It’s strange, we’ve lost religion but we still have Angels.” her voice is quiet to the end, her grip on him too tight to be reasonable but his is too so it’s acceptable. For a moment the patch of poison-green skin she stares at blurs, but Marian blinks back the tears. There is no time for tears.

  
Several moments pass, their grips do not relax, “Do you still believe in Angels, Siha?”  
There is no hesitation, “Yes.”

  
It’s the closest they’ve ever come to talking about After; Marian actively tries to avoid talking about it. They are quiet for the rest of the night until they fall asleep like this, tangled in each other’s arms; his grip too loose, letting her slip away and hers too tight, body braced for impact.

  
(Holding to him is like trying to cup the ocean in her hands; the water leaking from the cracks between her fingers and swept away with each new wave. She knows this.

She holds him tighter.)

 -

They are on the Citadel, She passes the memorial on the way to the Purgatory. She spots Cortez by the memorial again, a tablet in hand. He is shaking, upset, and something in Shepard breaks to see it. So she slows for a moment, taking a better look, and maybe that was where she went wrong because Shepard couldn’t just let Cortez stand by that blasted memorial alone. So she goes to him.  
“The past is yours: no one can take that away,” and Shepard doesn’t know if she’s talking to Cortez or herself, a well-worn prayer book still lies on the edge, closed and forgotten. She tries not to hear the recording, but it’s hard and it’s an echo of words another said to her once, in a dream.

She could leave now, should leave now. He’s mourning what he’s lost here and she’s intruding. But by fate or happenstance Cortez placed his recording next to the prayer book. She thinks of Robert and Thane and wonders if they’re together on a beach, waiting for them to meet them.  
Shepard moves to stand next to him and she can feel Cortez tense next to her, trying to find a way to ask her to leave. But she doesn’t look at him, only at the prayer book that lies so inconspicuously, as though it never belonged to anyone special at all. And suddenly, she wants to rage and scream and bellow her soul to Citadel’s fake sky. Something must change in her body language because his changes in response. She needs him to understand, needs him to see, but she’s not sure what it is so she speaks, words shaking, “I knew he was going to die long before he did,” it’s barely a whisper but it’s so quiet here, in this place of mourning, that all who are there can hear her.

Cortez hesitates, but Shepard’s eyes never leave the well-loved prayer book, “What do you mean, Commander?”

“Thane Krios, he is, he was, a Drell. With Kepral’s Syndrome. It stops them from breathing. He didn’t keep it from me, that he was dying but I…”Shepard pauses, her throat tight and the eyes of her fellow survivors glued to her stiff form, “I couldn’t stop myself.”

She doesn’t say from what, doesn’t have too. They stand there, a new camaraderie between them. Two souls who survived, who were left behind, who continue fighting.  
Later, she will go to Purgatory and tell Joker to pursue EDI, she will smile and encourage him and he won’t have a clue of how earlier that day she broke among strangers and the lost. Later she will pretend that Thane Krios meant nothing to her, as he wanted-his last wish for her protection from those who would try to harm those he cares for, even beyond his own death. But for now, Shepard stares at a prayer book and remembers drinking herbal tea from the same cup; remembers curling up on her bed-his grip too loose and hers too tight; remembers the way the smallest of his smiles made the sun rise in her heart.  
When they part Steve will leave behind the last audio recording Robert left him. Shepard will take Thane’s prayer book with her.

There’s a reason why she never looks directly at the memorial.

 -

Some nights she dreams of dead forests and chasing after a dead boy listening to dead voices whisper her name.  
Some nights she dreams of the choices she’s been forced to make, of lives lost “for the greater good”.  
Some nights she dreams of Thane, she remembers the time that they had; she remembers things that never happened, that couldn’t happen, that never had the chance to happen. Things she wanted and could never have.  
Most night she can’t remember her dreams but she sometimes lies in her bed for a few moments only half-awake and imagines that she hears the sea.  
The prayer book lies on her nightstand. There are no pictures of Thane, or of them together. She wishes there were, that there was something outside of memories that proved that Thane once lived. But when she closes her eyes Shepard can see him smiling.

“Your memory is not like ours, but, perhaps, you can hold me in it for a while.”

She traces his smile in her mind’s eye, she can remember the way he’d tilt his head, the way he blinked, so much slower than a human, and even the way his voice felt as it vibrated through his chest against the side of her face. But she can’t remember the sound of his laugh, she can’t quite recall the way he used to smell, she can’t remember the taste of his poison lips and can’t remember the exact color of his eyes; where they like sea grass, bright and lively? Or where they black as night? Somewhere in between?

She wants to hold onto his memory, she’s not ready to let go yet.

 -

They didn’t really kiss or hug or touch in public, not even amongst the crew of the Normandy. He was deeply afraid that someone would hunt her like they had Irikah-that someone would destroy her from the inside out. But sometimes, between missions, they would drink Tea together from a mug larger than anyone who wasn’t an Elcor or a Krogan would ever need-a cheesy souvenir mug displaying an Asari dancer that Marian had picked up from Illium that could keep a drink warm for hours.

The Tea was called Ertrinken Tod, made from the baked leaves and petals of a type of water flower from Kahje that is poisonous when raw. By itself it was terribly bitter, the first time Marian tried it she made a face and Thane had laughed, and explained how the tea was meant to soothe the irritation that those with Kepral’s felt within their chests and throats, “Though the taste,” Thane had admitted with a smile, “Leaves a bit to be desired.”

She had left for a moment then, quickly raiding the kitchen for her prize before bounding back to the observation deck. Deftly, she snagged the mug from Thane’s hand, or rather he allowed her to snag it from his hands, and squeezed the golden confection into the dark, bitter liquid before mixing it with a spoon. Grinning widely, Marian took a sip of the tea once more, humming in satisfaction, “What have you put in my tea, Siha?” Thane asked, amusement evident in his voice.

Marian flashed a grin in response, “It’s called honey, it’s harvested from insects called honey bees and humans use it to sweeten dark and bitter things, like this tea I have here,” she waved the cup in emphasis, handing it back to him to try. He breathed it in first, smelling the sweet golden honey mixed with the bitter Ertrinken Tod, then took a sip, eyes widening slightly in surprise with a quick quirk of his lips showing his pleasure.

“This tastes much better now Siha, thank you.”

“Now this makes it our tea, right?” Marian shot back with a grin while settling down beside him on the couch, “I provide the honey, you the leaves, and together we’ve got a pretty decent drink.”

Thane took another sip, humming as he did so. Pleased, he said fondly, “I think I would enjoy that very much,” then he passed the mug to her, expression soft as Marian smiled into the too large mug.

After that it was common for the crew to find them in the observation lounge, sitting together on one of the couches, just barely leaning into each other and passing a cup of honeyed Ertrinken Tod between them.

- 

Some days Shepard doesn’t think of Thane. Sometimes she’ll go day or even weeks at a time: the entire galaxy is at risk and she’s at the center, The Shepard can’t afford to lose strength at a time like this. But some days every action Shepard take are guided by Thane’s presence, some days every word is spoken like Thane was there besides her, offering her solemn advice and valuable insight on every possible situation. Most days the fact that Thane is gone, that Thane will neither fight nor lay beside her again is an accepted fact, like a wound that aches and itches as it scabs over.  
But some days Shepard wakes up drowsy and smiling, warm and safe and happy, Thane’s name escaping her in a sigh of pure bliss. Some days she turns for Thane’s input on a situation, sometimes she rushes head first into things-so used to having an extra sniper watching her back. Some days, as she drifts between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness she can almost smell the ocean, she hear his voice, can sense his presence and Shepard smiles and is happy.

 -

Samara is with them now and that is-that is good.  
The fear that had overwhelmed Shepard before, the idea of losing yet another friend to this madness: it is unacceptable. But it is painful, having her near; in some ways Samara is so like Thane at times that it aches. To have Samara near feels like looking into the future; a reflection of what happens to those who love and lose over and over again, because Samara is kind and Samara is good and Samara is content, but Samara is not happy.

Shepard is tired, so very very tired. They are so close to the end now, The Crucible nearly complete, but so many lives have been lost-so many good friends gone. There are new faces and old faces on the Normandy, and a wall with the names of the fallen seems to grow ever longer. Shepard does her best not to look at this memorial either.

(The prayer book lies on her bedside table, untouched, unread.)

There’s a sort of reunion taking place in the observation lounge, with alcohol an unhealthy snack foods and stories swapped and laughter shared. Samara boils water for her tea and Shepard decides to make someas well, because she’s a Commander and she’s Responsible and Respectable, thank-you-very-much-Garrus.

(“Ha! Whatever you say Shepard!”)

It’s sort of automatic, making her tea. It’s dark and bitter, with a dark greenish tint to it, but the honey lightens it, gives it a sort of golden hue. The mug she uses really is too big to be reasonable but she fills it up anyway. She’s not thinking about it all that much really; she’s laughing with her crew, teasing and being teased in turn. A break away from the gloom and doom that has settled over the ship like heavy fog. It’s nice, to break away from everything for a little while. Hours past like this and the days have been long and hard. She is drowsy, trying to keep up with the conversation while the honey-tea soothed her from the inside.

“Haha, you gettin’ tired there Shepard?”

The warm body she’s leaning against shifts slightly and Shepard “hmms” without comment, causing a small splattering of laughter. She takes a deep breath, smelling only the honeyed Ertrinken Tod in the too big mug from a lifetime ago, and she smiles, soft and sweet, lifting the mug to a suddenly quiet room, “Mmmm…Want the rest Thane?”

The body supporting her shifts and the mug is gently removed from her hands, “Yes, Thank you, Shepard,” the voice is quiet, soft, and slow-eternally patient, “Rest now.”  
So she does.

- 

The night before the end of everything Marian reads the prayer book cover to cover. She reads the stories of the old Gods and Goddess, learns their doctrine, their creeds, learns why Thane loved them so. For the first time in months she can clearly hear his voice, quietly reading the lines with her, praising the Gods, begging forgiveness, asking for the ability to act out their will. She read the notes he made in the margins, some religious in nature, others nonsensical words that had no meaning to her. That is, until, she learns of the Goddess Arashu and her Warrior-Angels, her Sihas. Fierce in wrath- tenacious protectors. Next to their story of battle against the darkness, their good deeds and unending love for those they protect was a word followed by a few lines:

  
 _Shepherd – noun_  
 _1\. A person who herds, tends, and guides sheep._  
 _2. A person who protects, guides, or watches over a person or group of people._  
 _3\. The Shepherd, Jesus Christ._

  
It wasn’t the right spelling; Thane had probably looked up what a Shepherd was from the way he’d written it down. But Marian had to close the book, because the precious pages where growing wet with her tears.  
It took her a long time to collect herself enough to read through the rest, even longer since she kept going back to that page with her name. But she did it.  
Before slipping into slumber that night Marian Shepard whispered to someone, “Amonkira, Lord of Hunters, grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true and my feet swift. And should the worst come to pass…

Grant me forgiveness.”

 -

It feels almost like betrayal in the end. Like giving in, like accepting defeat or acknowledging that the Reapers were right all along. But she has never once claimed saint hood-never asked for the mantle that rests on her sagging shoulder; she is no Atlas, she cannot hold the world.  
In that moment all she can see was EDI, learning to love, learning what it means to be alive. She can see Legion, who, in his final moments learned what it meant to be “I” and then sacrificed himself so the Geth too, could know what that means. She thinks of Mordin and his sacrifice, of Thane and his. She thinks of everything that has led to this point, from Eden Prime to Horizon to Now. She thinks of Utilitarianism and how the greatest good means the greatest happiness for the largest amount of people and she thinks that she’s perfectly capable of jumping in front of a train.

 

So she does.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_She is drifting along, lost to the tide, to the current._

_She kicks and breaks water, head thrown back and gasping air._

_She smells the sea._

_"Siha"_


End file.
